Burning Bridges at the Stake
by Koza B. Bucket
Summary: Even with the relationship changing and reforming between him and England, France is unable to let go of his past and move on to the future, damaging both of their hearts as he struggles to make sense of his love. FrUK and FrancexJeanne d'arc, oneshot.


England stared at his thin, delicate teacup, painted with roses the colour of his wordless lips, as if I would just vanish from the lack of attention aimed at me. He stole a quick glance at my steaming mug of coffee, an unmasked hatred for the aroma flashing across his face before his eyes flicked back down at the teabag that his hand was idly dipping into the teacup. The piercing, emerald eyes steered clear of my own, away from the pleading gaze that I was sending him, complete with a slightly pouting lower lip. The hand gripping the teabag tensed, clenching into a fist and tangling the string, before England stood abruptly, mindful not to abandon his tea on the dining table when he walked away.

His quietly fuming footsteps grew softer as he found his way outside, further evidence provided when my ears twitched at the sound of the sliding door opening. I didn't hear the door slam, or even close kindly, and took that subtle gesture as an invitation outside with him. I ran a thin hand through my shoulder-length hair, bringing it across my roughly stubbled chin and sighing with a heaviness I couldn't shake. Taking a quick mouthful of coffee, I left my mug behind, hoping it wouldn't grow cold during my time gone, but also secretly hoping that we would be out there for long enough that it would stop steaming and chill to the point where it was undrinkable. England didn't have to wait long, because I was all too eager for my chance to get him smiling again.

Placing a hand on the doorframe, I took in the scene, England with his arms resting on the balcony and his white pajama pants thrashing about in the breeze. He turned and the low sun shot beams of gold through his blonde hair, lightening it to a soft platinum colour, while the breeze threw it into his face to block the smile he was giving me. It was a look I'd gotten too much, not quite the genuine grin that could take my breath away, but a smirk that said, _You know me too well_. My heart gave a rough, painful stutter as déjà vu crept into my mind, because I had seen this a hundred times before, during the years I was parted from England.

A sweet woman was dressed in a billowing, white night gown with lace that crept from the tips of her shoulders to the nook of her elbow, casting the breaths of intricate shadows on her skin. Her cheeks flushed with hopeful colour, blue eyes alight with the shine of love for her country—for me—and from the soft brightness streaming into them from the sky above. That smile said the same thing, that I knew her too well, knew she'd be standing out on the porch waiting for me, her petite body clothed in the only women's clothing she owned, which hid the masculine muscles of her upper arms.

I stepped in close and she looked away. "I am leaving early this morning," she said, pained, as my arms wrapped around her waist. She paid no notice to the hands at the small of her back. "The English have Compiègne under siege."

My heart sank into my stomach, eyes closing and leaning foreward to press our foreheads together. My Jeanne, the young little thing of not even twenty years, was heading out to fight again. Her bruised hands would be gripping a sword tightly, bust hidden by clinking armor as she battled mightily and proudly for the sake of France. For the sake of the man that held her softly like the flower she was, the man that she was thoughtlessly drawn to but still refused to kiss back, to reach out to, so that she could remain as pure as the white dress that covered her.

"I can't go with you," I murmured, although she was already aware. My Jeanne would be going off on her own, to fight for me, for the country she loved and the man that she couldn't help but feel gravity shifting towards.

"I know," she replied, consoling my cracked voice. "I know."

A World Meeting was scheduled for that day, where I'd have to sit and chat in a civilized manner with the man my people and my love were fighting, the man who was sending troops to invade my cities and take my most important people captive. I'd made my absence clear to Jeanne a few days prior, explaining that I had political business to attend to, which wasn't that untrue.

"I know you'll be brave for your country, so you don't even need me to wish you luck," I said with a soft chuckle close to her ear. My lips brushed her cheek with a lighthearted kiss that made her tense up in embarrassment. She pretended that nothing happened, smiling warmly and blatantly ignoring my affections. Her concern for her own purity and virginity couldn't bother me when I could see the love and adoration in her eyes, hear of it from her intense and unending bravery on the battlefield. Jeanne was fighting for me, for the country she loved and was forever loyal to, even if she didn't realize that she could love me physically by responding to my fondness for her.

"Thank you, Francis," she said politely.

I didn't ever see her again, for she was then captured, called for trial without valid evidence, and sentenced for her heresy against the English. She burned at the stake, sending puffs of unfitting black smoke into the sky from the crimson flames that engulfed her fading body. I never saw her ashes. I hadn't done a _thing_.

I hadn't been there for her, as she had always been there for me.

Instead, I had been discussing world relations with the very man whose people were plotting her death. The final memory I held of her was the wind sweeping her away, flinging the cuffs of her shirt from side to side, her bosom bound flat and skirt replaced with a pair of tan trousers. She had waved cheerfully, golden sun highlighting her golden hair and her golden smile. The sweet, messily-cropped locks of blonde cascaded into her face with that final upturn of her lips and brush of translucent eyelashes against the top of her cheek.

The man that now stood in front of me resembled her so, a bittersweet expression gripping his features, messy yellow hair falling before his emerald eyes. I wanted to reach out and run my hand through the softness of his hair, feel what I had missed before Jeanne left me, but comparing them had proved to be a nasty idea. Just a day before, I had brought her up during one of his infamous suppers, and it had broken him down into an angry, guilty mess that now refused to speak to me.

"You never smile with your teeth," I'd said to him as he shot me a rare grin. "She was the same way. It suits you." England set his fork down, lips pressing into a sturdy line.

"Don't," he warned, knowing very well who I meant by _she_. He looked as if he was either going to begin squirming in his chair or erupt with bitter rage. I blinked at him dumbly. "We're not similar, so don't tell me that I'm like her! Stop giving me haircuts that look like hers, and don't tell me I feel familiar in your arms, and stop looking so distant, like you're remembering her, when we—" England blushed, eyes dropping to examine his charred steak. "when we..."

Honestly, I hadn't realized that he noticed, and couldn't help myself. When I ran my hands along the muscles of his arms, or when he buried his face into the crook of my neck, my mind automatically remembered the roughness of _her_ arms and how _she_ was just tall enough for the top of her golden head to brush against my textured chin when she did the same thing. I was unable to formulate a response, and instead picked at the blackness on the edge of my meat, rudely disassembling the meal.

England puffed out a heavily irritated sigh. "I'm not her, Francis."

I flinched. "Don't call me that."

"Why not?" he asked, voice rising in volume and brow furrowing with built-up anger. "Francis. Arthur. They're our names, meant for when we have to interact with humans and act like them."

"You're not human," I muttered defeatedly. "You don't need to call me by a human name."

"Is what we're doing not bringing us to the level of humans?" England laughed darkly. "You think we're acting like _countries_? Or do you just hate the fact that I'm calling you by the name _she_ called you, your _lover_ called you?"

"It's not..." My excuses weren't coming.

"Dammit! You're treating me just like the rest of them. There's no emotion left in you. Where's all this 'love' you're so intent on preaching about? What is left there other than physical love, France?"

"...Thank you for the meal," I said, standing and placing my undirtied napkin beside my untouched plate of unbearable food. England gawked at me, still fuming and astonished that I was refusing to answer him.

"Let her go!" was the final thing I'd heard when I shut the front door behind me.

It was because of this that I could not bear to think that England's hair, cropped, yet still somewhat long for a man, looked exactly as Jeanne's had on that wonderful, terrible day full of heartbreaking smiles and pitiful conversations. My first instinct was to step in and wrap my arms around the man, soak up his warmth in the awakening morning breeze, and tell him that he looked like an angel. I wanted to protect him, to love him, to make him happy once again, smiling shyly if at all, but secretly content inside. But all of the words that formed in my mind sounded unbearably fake, as if they'd enrage him further.

What seemed real to me was everything before this point, all of the days we'd spent together over the centuries, the bonding and the fights and the love. I was the role model, the one who picked out his clothes to be sure that he wouldn't walk around the streets of London looking like a fool. I'd kissed the pain away from the scrapes caused by rough falls, and even pressed my lips softly to the bruises that I would create in the many battles between us. I had taken it upon myself to teach him how to cook—although once I realized it was a lost cause, the lesson had turned into "How to turn the burner off once the meat has been murdered." He had come to me in his weakest of days, stubbornly refusing any help even though he knew I could never leave him, crushed, on my doorstep.

And after Jeanne had died, when our conflicts were resolved and I'd finished hating him for her death, it was _me_ ringing _his_ doorbell, blindly seeking comfort. He invited me inside kindly, as if greeting an old friend. Somehow, even after a century of spilled blood and bitter tears and endless fighting, the bonds pulling us together, tying us inescapably together, hadn't come undone or even loosened.

England had sat me down on his couch, his ugly, plaid couch, and escaped to make tea. I was left there with too lengthy a moment to think, staring blankly at my hands or through my hands and wondering why the hell humans were so fragile. It made me crave someone unbreakable, a person that couldn't be broken or claimed by mortal delicateness.

That very man strolled cautiously back into his living room a too-long stretch after the teapot had whistled, gracefully setting a silver tray containing a full teaset onto his coffee table, then sat down beside me, close enough that he could be a shoulder to cry on or a hand to hold. His careful thoughtfulness did not go unnoticed, and I could feel my heart swell from the gesture.

"Do you want to talk?" he asked, reaching foreward to sprinkle a meager amount of sugar in his tea. I considered that for a few dulled seconds, glancing around his living room thoughtfully, my eyes falling on the hand-quilted blanket folded neatly on the back of his recliner and the snowglobe of the Eiffel Tower I'd given him that was centered on his dustless windowsill, the grains of plastic snow settled to the bottom edges as if he hadn't shaken it even once. The movement of his hands caught my eye and I spotted an ugly, purple and yellow bruise crawling from the base of his thin wrist to the knuckle on his forefinger as he daintily set the spoon back onto the tray.

"Not right now." My hand shot out abruptly before England could take the teacup into his fingers, moving as intensely as my tone suggested to grasp his pale wrist gently, mindful of the pain I didn't want to send shooting up his arm. His head whipped in my direction, and I let my sapphire eyes burn deeply into the emerald ones looking me over carefully.

I tugged on his wrist, guiding the man into my lap. He opened his mouth in protest, brow scrunching up tightly and nose wrinkling in discomfort. I interrupted him, catching his jaw softly in my palm before the expected "Let me go, you git" could escape from his pale, trembling lips. Lifting his bruise to my mouth, I pressed a tender kiss to the darkened skin as sweetly as possible, like an invitation to forgive and forget. The wounded hand, that reminded me so painfully of Jeanne's, was being healed the way that I knew how to heal _England_, and I could see that he too was reminded of the days when I'd kiss the pain away in the way his eyes grew wide and shining.

"Bl-bloody wanker, what're you doing?" The words were nervously chuckled out, fakely angry while in reality, England was not making any move to stop my lips.

In response, I pulled his face foreward, slowly letting it approach mine, so I could replace the skin of his wrist with that of his lips, pressing our mouths together in what began as a slow kiss but soon grew heated. England freed his hand, using both to untie the ribbon that held my hair back so that it fell to my shoulders and his fingers could easily tangle in it, while my arms had both wrapped around his waist and I wrinkled the fabric of his shirt with the hands that gripped his back. We both sucked in shallow breaths around the kiss, but it eventually grew too difficult and we agonizingly drew ourselves apart for air, though instantly missed the feeling of each other. After a few seconds of avoiding my eyes, England slid his hand down my shoulder to fumble with the top button on my shirt.

Sudden realization and regret washed over me, curling shame into my mind at the thought of the crime and betrayal I'd just committed against my deceased lover. "Non," I puffed out, shaking my head and pushing him an arm's length away. "Non, England, stop."

I pushed him off of me, not roughly, but too suddenly to be graceful. England had scooted farther away, withdrawn into himself and staring darkly at his hands, one of which twitched slightly. I, on the other hand, felt like running from the room, leaving him behind, returning to my own home that was filled with memories of Jeanne that would drown out the taste of England on my tongue. I refused the fuzziness of bliss still swimming in my mind from his kisses, drowning it out with the slight coolness of Jeanne's skin that fateful morning, the sound of her heavily-accented voice ringing in my ears, although my memories could not be doing her justice.

I sank back into the plaid cushions, defeated, when I realized I could no longer remember if she was wearing slippers or had gone outside barefoot.

To lose even such a small detail of my Jeanne was something I would never be willing to bear, and the heavy sorrow that ensued crushed my chest with a thousand-pound blow. A thick knot formed in my throat, making every swallow or movement of my mouth sluggish, and when my vision began to blur with sudden wetness, I dipped my head into my hands in a hasty attempt to hide the oncoming tears.

I felt England's eyes focused on me. "Do you want to talk now?"

"Oui," I whispered—weak, exposed, and barely audible.

"About Jeanne?" His tone was soft, a step towards consoling, although it still rang with the awkward air left behind by the redness of his lips after being kissed.

"_Oui_," I repeated, voice cracking. The final strings of my control snapped and I dropped my hands, turning my cheek into the fabric of the sofa, my now tear-streaked face towards him. He faded out of view quickly as sobs began to shake me.

"Well, I'll begin by saying I'm sorry, you twit," England sighed, then reached up to stroke a few tears off of my face with his thumb and then twirl a lock of my hair around his finger. When I didn't respond, he continued. "On behalf of my people, who unfairly... killed her. I'm sorry that I couldn't do anything."

"It's not your fault," I managed to hiccup, and I was surprised that I actually meant it.

At that, I began to form words, slow at first, but gaining speed until I could hardly breathe and the shuddering, sobbing breaths no longer came. England eventually pulled me close, finding a comfortable position for my head on his chest while my tears soaked his wrinkled shirt. The night was long and positively horrid, with memories and thoughts pouring off of my tongue, my most private moments and beliefs and fears becoming something shared between us. I greedily wasted his time, indulging in the comfort of a strong pair of arms around my shoulders and an unwavering pair of ears understanding my sniveling speech, for once not doing the comforting. My heart twinged with regret when all had been said and tears had been dried, because England had never before been forced to endure my weakness and to be strong for me. It hurt to give up my position as his protector and support for one night, but if I could relay Jeanne's every detail to him, perhaps with her left behind in two of our minds, she would not be forgotten.

I actually did tell him every detail.

I forced him to listen to my recounts of her smiles, the confident shine in her eyes, the spring in her step that never failed to make me smile. Her words, her dreams for France, were passed on through my cracked words, and as I explained our final morning together, I saw England's eyes squeeze tightly shut.

The worst part is, though, I must have made a comparison between them every two sentences.

It was always their hair, or their half-smiles, or their protests against kisses, and although they were so different, my grief-filled mind _found_ the similarities, digging them up from nowhere and making England cringe. Looking back at the night, I felt as if I'd broken his heart with each little comment. And I probably had.

But the realization of my mistake did not come until the night after, when I again showed up at his front door, rapping my trembling, red knuckles and awaiting a reply that never came. Instead, through the neatly-groomed and squared-off hedges, I was greeted by an obviously _very_ drunk English man stumbling towards his mailbox, a bottle of whiskey still clutched in his fist. He leaned against the post, grumbling too loudly about how the driveway should stop rotating so he could get to his front steps. I rushed over, and dodged a bottle of ale that was carelessly swung out as his body and outstretched arms turned towards me.

"Hey! Frog!" he hollered as if I wasn't standing five feet away and as if it wasn't past the bedtimes of the children in his neighborhood. "Hey!" he repeated, louder, when I roughly grabbed his arm, snatching the bottle of whiskey out of his hand and holding it out of his careless, drunken, and flailing reach.

He snarled curses about me and my "human bitch" all the way up to his room.

I stayed in his guest room that night, because it was perfectly reasonable to assume that England would be waking up with one _hell_ of a hangover and would be in desperate need for some hot breakfast. After that night, I began staying over more and more, until I actually had a drawer of my possessions tucked away in the guest room, and until he started referring to it as "France's room." After that night, England's drinking really got out-of-hand, to the point where five nights out of seven he'd crash through the door, ale heavy on his breath and in his words. After that night, I began to reach out for more comfort, but instead of torturing England with my need, I confided in strangers, whispering words of love not meant for them as I lead them to my bed.

Because, after that night, I promised myself I'd never hurt England again.

And I didn't. One-night stands sustained me, and half of the times I brought someone to his house instead of my own, he was too deep into the bottle to notice, and too hungover the next morning to wake before their departure. After too long, much too long, we grew tired of the same old routine, his headaches and my bad dates, and apologies fell out of both of our mouths, simple and to-the-point and genuniely sorry.

It was hard to tell exactly where our relationship had began—again?—and what exactly it was, but we both knew that we couldn't bear to be without each other, and I couldn't bear to see him without someone to watch over him. There was something missing, though, because all though we were still tied together by either a thin breath of a string or chained together by steel bonds we could never break, my _I love you_'s were halfhearted and never returned, often met by a sharp glance and some sort of British insult.

And, staring at England's fading half-smile, there came regret for bringing old memories up the day before, regret for causing him to go out drinking again and show up piss-drunk on my front porch and invite himself into my home. It was all I could do to offer him my bed and sleep on the couch myself, because I had broken my internal promise never to hurt him again. As a weak apology, I had let the smell of brewing tea wake him and drag him, head pounding, out of bed to meet me at the kitchen table for an awkward few moments of silence.

I blinked at England, positive I was going to make things right.

"Well, I'll begin by saying I'm sorry, you twit," I said, corner of my mouth turning up into a clever grin when his eyes widened. I took the opportunity to walk over, sling an arm over his shoulders, and widen my smile.

It felt like letting go of a buoy to tie myself to an anchor and poke a hole in my life vest, readying myself to be dragged down into untamed waters that would devour me, or letting the edge of a cliff slide out from under my fingers to enjoy the stomach-flipping plummet to the earth below, but I felt myself close my eyes, breathing out the memory of Jeanne as I did so.

When I opened them again, I saw nothing but smooth skin and piercing eyes, highlighted by bushy eyebrows and a confused pout.

"Je t'aime," I whispered, placing a warm kiss on the sensitive skin behind his ear.

England's eyes snapped away, then back towards me, his dumbfounded expression giving me reason enough to believe I'd actually convinced him this time.


End file.
